In the ebony, depressing night of withered grey clouds and stormy precipitation laid a girl, hair tangled, unkempt and comatose from the world. She would stare into the ceiling, purged with agony of her infectious past, body pressed onto the bed. All she could observe was the absolute torment of malicious torture. Not passed, but gained in journey. She saw the exploitations of her body, molested beyond reserve, absent of all devotion.

Whispers circulated the room, taunting her into utter oblivion. All she could define was the facts of her body being a toy for sinful deeds, for erotic pleasure in which she did condemn. The cruel voices slammed the iron door shut, becoming an isolated prison. Her cold room, desolate and excruciating left her with only spiders webbing their sticky weapon on the corners of the room. Rodents scavenged for food, their rustling alerted the girl into awareness. She blinked her eyes, body frail from bed rest. She sat up, absorbing the decrepit odor of rust and mold.

She departed from the bed, staggering to the window. Her palm pressed onto the window, eyeing the depressing conditions of the weather, sprinkles of rain and lightning storms, decorated the grey skies.  Turning away, a handprint left behind as evidence. She gawked at the dim light from above, fluttering repetitively into darkness and light.  As the light flicker, her empty eyes became brighter.

 

Many would say this house once decorated in fine green, lush with greenery and subsidized with belongings of bicycles and two family cars stood inflamed. Instead of the normalcy breached into every heart of a family’s home, stood a torched wasteland of charred wood, broken windows and deteriorated wall structures. 

A boy much younger than the girl rooted next to him, embodied by faint bruises of charcoal.  His soft sobs heard, not hers. Her eyes were a deep crevasse of nothingness. You could hear the neighbors trying to console the children with less success then imagined. The boy clutches onto the arm of the girl, signifying they were siblings, depicting by their sleepwear. It was unknown how they got out or how they managed to survive the intensified fire.

Firemen, policemen and paramedics poured through the streets of the neighborhood, immediately taking in the two young children. As the paramedic examined the girl, her facial features, hollowed in a blank absence. The paramedic, probably concluded, she was in a heavy trance of shock. That was his diagnosis. He did not realize, her diagnostic would abide for the rest of her young life until it was time for her to perish by the uncontrollable urge to mutilate.

 

Her matted, straggly raven coarse hairs sprayed across her face, discarding flashes of ghostly, white skin. The patient, sleepwear dress devoured her entire feminine body. She stumbled to the staunch, iron-grey chamber door, gracing the patterns on the door in a concise manner. She maniacally giggled, a portrait of madness sketching into her chestnut eyes and clammy exterior.

The door creaked, granting the empty room to echo. Defensive, in her mock turtle shell was a man peeking from behind the door.  His face was incoherent to the asylum staff here. She all but knew of the harsh brutality of their twisted crimes. She could actualized the images, she saw in her window of nightmares. Regardless, a momentum of anxiety breached her. Memories, distant, vague memories gathered a feeling of revulsion. Men in distinct blue and white uniforms would caress her, touch her, and feel her as if she was their possession, their porcelain china doll. She woeful whimpers, gargled in the back of dehydrated throat.

“It’s okay. I am not one of them.” He confessed, confirming his solidarity by raising his empty hands up to influence her.  His ocean blue eyes entered into a staring competition, which radiated specks of hope.  “I know you. You are Amber Willows, daughter of Thomas and Juliet Willows. You were put here at the age of 8.” He rationalized, resorting to confidential information of her supposed private life. He knew “things”, things that she has forgotten. Forgotten in shadows where hands grab at the strains of her memories.

She planted herself on the bed, gripping the roots of her hair. She gritted her teeth frozen in time as those minimal, spacious memories were vanquished in her mind. She knew she had a family, a family who loved her. The only memories she kept while her time here. That love kept her from burrowing into nothingness. She held onto the mother, the father, the brother to survive. She managed to insinuate. “M-my name is Amber?”

The man acknowledged attaching a sincere, understanding smile. Fading portrayals of another man resides next to him. Whispers of encouragement ascended into her ears, as she could identify a man who swore to always protect her. “Yes. I am Riven. Riven Durandal.” This Riven introduced, his hand awkwardly out.

She pondered at this bizarre man designed with angelic purity and trustworthiness. He differed from the people who harmed her, who degraded her. He was the personification of heroism, parental guidance, everything she wished to see. All the time passed felt abnormal, even strangely absent. A sudden feeling of courage rushed through her veins, the urgency to take his hand. His offer was questionable, yet it grasped onto the substance of hope. The agility, unbeknownst to her gripped the hand in heartache.

Riven grinned softly, returning the desperation in her grasp. He knew freedom was her motivation. He aided her from the bed, embracing her. She panicked, hyperventilating within her vibrating chest, insisting to break off the human contact. Riven endured the horrific screams and sobs for release until she managed to find her inner peace. Amber instilled, taking in her savior descending into slumber. He carried her, tucked against his chest

 

The highest member of the Immortal Council by the name of Xidorn Goldbard, dressed in rich colors of silver and gold, investigated the barren area. Upon inspecting a room, the very image terrorized his stalwart heart. It immortalized his humanity and summoned scorn. Instruments of blunt torture, contaminated with blood and even feces were spread about.  In the core of the room, his fingertips smoothed the iron bed. The brown straps, deplored obvious yet assumptive sins.

Emotions warped into antagonism. Pity stretched so far, it painted into the walls and caverns of his beating heart. All he could determine was the utter repugnance humanity delivered. This state of humanity messaged copper blood, rustic devices and a militia of atrocities made his inside twist even further.

Feathery footsteps due to the evidence of the squeaky floorboard caught his attention as his subordinate and once pupil, Riven Durandal carried a girl in his arms. Xidorn, silent, bard from speech, knew they found the Antichrist. Impressions of tattooed reddish and purple injuries were stitched onto her face, forearms and legs. Xidorn’s heart shrunk to a baby tomato due to the conditions of the child.

Riven apathetically bore into the eyes of his mentor, signaling to the flesh and bone in his arms. “She is the one, isn’t she?” He consummated, conversing in direct eye level to his mentor.

“Yes.” Xidorn confirmed, analyzing the beaten and damaged chosen Antichrist. He strokes the straggly grey tips of his beard with his fingers, grazing it, enforcing questions within his knowledge in the most stereotypical manner.

Words were deaf, becoming silent thoughts. There were more questions, than answers. Answers were incomplete to the eyes, painted into the brain yet not dried into the heart. The only reminiscence of plausible answers was the Antichrist child, the daughter of Lucifer either wise known as Amber Willows.

2: A Stray Child

In storybooks, detailed with princesses and knights laid a girl with binds of venom. A fiery ash, the smell of burnt wood was never an awesome story. It gripped the hearts of progressive darkness. The only details of fairytales was the forgotten memories left behind, the one with the family. There were glimpses of smiles, tended with gold and saviors of evil.

Amber clutched to the pink, plush rabbit squeezed from the tight embrace she imprinted. She rested on the thighs of her storyteller intertwining the ears of the rabbit. There laid a victim beyond repair. Stories detailed by fairytales of princes, princesses and mythological creatures.  Where dreams with a simple graze transformed into glory.

Countless days after the mission to retrieve Amber, she has occupied in the observation room in the Immortal Council.  Inspection and summarization of her regression was evident to the members in the council. Their current tasks were alien and they knew if a mortal would adopt her, the conclusion would end in suffering. In mortal hands, Ambers’ most likely circumstances were to go back into an asylum and then breed chaos.

Riven viewed, the growth in Amber’s development. His terms, the progression was minimal and insignificant yet Xidorn insinuated she was still a flower bud. She would not survive without the commercialized sins by her biological family. His time with her has grown to parental, paternal love. Lysandra knew, since she has also developed maternal adoration for her. Sure she hallucinated and acted out more than achieve her own age but what did anybody expect. She entered into a thorn bush vortex with no way out.

“You are watching her again, Riven.” Xidorn studied, cognizant of his students’ melancholic desires to retain her life since others wished to see her executed before Lucifer reaches her. He knew execution was thwarted by those who supported this young woman. However apprehension and hysteria within the Council was redeemed over their consultations.

Amber caught the sight of Riven and Xidorn, dashing to them energetically. She snuggled into the arms of Riven, breathing in his scent. She presented him a smile, giggling. It paid smiles from the adults in the room. “Riv-riv look at what Lysa, Mira and Dorn got me!” Amber chirped, forcing him to the toy collection she received from Lysandra, Xidorn and Semiramis, the Ethereal Witch.  “This one is Antoinette, Mary, Bouquet….and Mira.” She familiarized, directing to each doll in frilly dresses and enriched hairstyles. 

Lysandra approached Xidorn, situating the book onto the table filled with skilled drawings belonging to Amber. “Hello Xidorn.” She stood next to him, her gorgeous black locks, dark skin and sharp eyes tantalizing to every man and woman.  

“Lysandra….” Xidorn smiled, eyes twinkling in relaxation, as his friendship with Lysandra was surmised to be out of respect. Regulatory benefits aside, his allegiance was embarked to her and to her husband. “You two truly love her.” He intercepted, fledging the answer in its’ truest stage.

Lysandra settled in a secretive, peaceful state in contempt to the plausibility of Amber finding her death closer than expected. “We cannot help ourselves, Xidorn. We cannot bear children. Amber … brings so much light despite being who she is.” Lysandra knew every occasion with her was to be cherished as if a Christmas present would be given to them. Cherish. It mattered because Amber slowly, though encouragingly became their world.

The fluttering of Xidorn’s eyelids peeked at Lysandras’ complacent emanation. A parental guidance and adoration in his inspection, a rather profound endearing devotion was flowering. It brought thoughts of maybe this type of love could cease Ambers’ heritage and bring forth a new dawn without a cessation of a girl who knows nothing.

Both examined the scene before them, Amber brushing the dolls’ hair delicately rambling with Riven. When Amber was done, Riven kidnapped the brush, returning the gesture to Ambers’ tangled mane. He combed through, eliciting emotional madness, to eventual calm. Amazingly, her composure shifted over and over again but she always found tranquility with Riven.  

Breaking away Xidorn nodded to himself, preparing to desert the familial gratification for a more sensible approach. This approach was to grant freedom. Deep within her madness was a girl searching, exploring and discovering the many sides to her character.

“Dorn-dorn, where are you going?” Amber gazed, drawing all of his robes with her grip. Madness impacted her being as a whole. Unfortunately the three adults would never know how long she would be injected with the case of madness. Only that her control was limited.

Xidorn stroke her head, pecking her forehead. He gave her smothering grin. “To set you free.”  She gawked at the vindication, massaging the affection kiss upon her.

As he retreated, garbs flowing from his undeterred walk, Amber spied with thirst. Lysandra signaled her. “Amber lets draw.” Amber’s attention was hastily blocked, engorged with the concept of drawing. She folded her legs, sitting perfectly setting the pencil crayons to her liking.

Riven wrapped his arms around his wife, kissing her cheek. They concentrated with love for this child. Unknowingly to them, she is already a part of their world.

The Cardinal, mediated with a golden luster round table and chairs circulating it sat key acolytes of the Immortal Council.  Assorted attendants ranging from the beginning of time, to the middle ages came to voice their opinions about the supernatural entities and the human world. The highest was the missing Xidorn Goldbard, the Witches of Ethereal, Ourania of the Necromancer Gypsy Tribe, Eris Ambrosine and her brother Kasimir Ambrosine, the few selectors who voted for the exemption of Amber Willows. There was an opposition, reprimanding for capital punishment such as Godfrey Cambrai, student of Uriel and Oriel, the masters of Alchemy, the Tama brothers and Vladislav Tokarev-Melkhin, the infamous Elementalist tribal leader. Neutral associates were Uriel and Oriel, Demon Snakes Niah and Kiah and the Guardians, Zindel Geva, Demas Siencyn and Dallan Kallicharan.  To summarize, arguments were tossed into the air, churned over and over again with little success. 

Mentally preparing for outbursts for his tardiness, Xidorn wrinkled grin peered into the ceiling. He designated a minor prayer, wishing for victory primarily with the choice he was going to make. Absolutely he was going to be degraded by the opposition but reimaging the childish smile of Amber Willows, he would do anything to keep her alive. As long as she is glued into this mentality, her ideology not diverted to her kin, then lyrically, moments in time would be justifiable.  Xidorn paced into the Cardinal.

“You are late Xidorn.” Semiramis chided, features embedded with distain. Impossibly aggravated, which was typical for her crude temper. Nevertheless, empathy, benevolence graced her lining more than her pride. This yearning was managed by delivering toys for Amber to revel in.

Xidorn wrinkled smile shone, gaining flustered scrutiny in both negative and positive highlights.  “I apologize Semiramis…..I was held up.” He ambiguously clarified, in a charismatic sense, the grin never fading from his prune lips.

“Due to the lateness of Mr. Goldbard, we are at a standstill over Ambers’ livelihood.” Godfrey Cambrai grunted, in disbelief considering the girl was the Antichrist, a mere spawn of the devil, himself. She was an incorrigible sin against humanity and all in his path.  

Ourania grated with irritation towards Godfrey’s arrogance fumed a storm of fury within her unyielding soul. Labeled as ancient to the young, she is the figure of eternal youth in truth. “Oh be quiet, Mr. Cambrai. Taking a young girls’ life shouldn’t be in the best interest for humanity nor the supernatural.”

Godfrey’s face pinched, lips pursed. He was the extraction of lemon consumption, unable to take the mixture of sweet and bitter. He sojourned into an inattentive, bratty child stance.

Eris and Kasimir chuckled, brother and sister finding amusement in such childish endeavors. Others trailed behind, showing animosity or whimsy. As for Semiramis, she was peeved, an icy ferocity lurking into her light blue pupils.

“I have a suggesting. Maybe unlikable but it will provide sanctity for all.” Xidorn entertained by the other members, switching into his resoluteness. This derivation of his personality was known to the members, which solidified respect for the elderly Immortal and his gentle devotion for all. 

Eris Ambrosine, loyal as be, spared her loyalty to Xidorn since their encounter centuries prior. She equipped no question, nor inquired his duties as the Immortal Council leader. “What is your suggestion, Xidorn?” She petitioned, optimistic he would make an honest resume. 

Xidorn saluted his student in gratitude and carried on. “I am thinking maybe if Miss. Willows were to have a normal life, away from evilness. She would develop a keen sense of humanity.”

“And where would she have this normal life?” Semiramis plagued, prying for more technicalities. Her frigid exterior was not melted by curiosity, only validation for an agreement peaked for this Immortal.

“In the human world with Riven and Lysandra….they love her despite.”  Xidorn related, penetrating each of the rationalization of the Immortal Council members. They were vindicated over their feelings on the next course of action. The ultimate setback was the fear of a New Reign happening. All the Immortals promised the Archangels to remove any Antichrist child from the list on Earth. If Amber, the Antichrist were to participate with her father, it would replenish the New Reign.  “Love is strong, my friends. It changes more than you think. I know we promised the Archangels but we also have the moral capacity to change others.”  Xidorn extracted, proudly standing with arms widen in a harmonious negotiation.

Thinking for the old and for the new was an influential decision for the Immortal Council, nay or hay would depend on the life of one being. One sacrifice meant the toll for many or none at all. Xidorn knew this had to benefit humanity as a whole and the supernatural agenda. For now, the only necessary belief to clutch onto is the standards of hope.

In the round table, hands rose in accordance, the Witches of Ethereal, the Ambrosine siblings, Ourania, the Tama brothers, Oriel and Uriel and the three Guardians won the dominant vote, desecrating the opposition of Godfrey Cambrai and the Tokarev Melkhin leader. Infamously, the life of Amber Willows would be guarded….for now.

 

Amber enveloped around her toys, her dolls and her new precious items. It gave her a system, a security blanket above all else. Her dreams terrorized her continually, soft sobs tickling down her cheeks. She knew of the consequences, the damnation, everything that would destroy her sense of self. She did not remember anything. It was removed, time and time again.

The rushing footsteps of her new mentor, Riven Durandal accessed her room, detecting the agitated tears. Concern for her, was situated into his genuine brown eyes. One of the fewest emotions she has seen for a long time. The asylum never gathered it.

“Is everything okay sweetheart?” Riven soothed, removing the long black locks caressed everywhere. His fatherly content, his love eliminated the thorns within her heart, causing the insanity to make her weep.

Amber shook her head in denial, or merely because of the question that was asked. She ceased his hand, fiddling with the texture and quality of his skin. He was content with her giggles, knowing it was a condition of her insanity, her madness. Amber sought comfort in his grazing hand on her head, slowly inching into dreamland.

 

Riven kissed her forehead, slating the blanket to contain the warmth. He observed her protectively for brief moments, returning to his master bedroom. He admired his gorgeous wife of over 700 years. He was her air, his love, his chosen diamond. She glimmered in the moonlight, in the sunlight, everywhere she went and his feelings were consistent too.

He glided onto the bed, careful to mute the nose of disturbance. She groaned, gently nabbing at the pillow with her delicate hands. He traced her dark chocolate shoulders, clinging onto her with an embrace, lamenting his adoration. Lysandra sensed her husband swallowing her into a caressing hug, permitting to sink. Riven widened his eyes at her vigilance, grinning even harder if that is even possible.

“Is she okay?” Lysandra inquired apprehension over Ambers’ distress numbed her too. She had the urge to dally into Ambers’ makeshift bedroom and console her, herself. However once she heard the pitter patter of her husband, she knew Amber would be alright.

Riven pondered how he could receive such a glorious woman for decades, centuries, millennia’s’ to come. “Yes, it was her nightmares again.” He detailed the exhaustion of Ambers’ distorted nightmares, defining them to Xidorn and countless close colleagues.  

“It is bound to occur. She has suffered so much. I wonder what the council is going to do with her. Maybe we can requisite to keep her.” Lysandra motioned, facing her husband with delight, pleading in her eyes. Her amour for adopting Amber has leeched into her brain and sucked all logic away into a dark hole, never to return. 

Riven snuggled even deeper, turning her to face him. He swept her hair away from her cheek, kissing her detailing on how cozy her lips were. He released her from his captivity, both laughing into comfortable silence. Riven rested on the bed, facing the ceiling. Lysandra nestled her curls and head on his chest. “There are not enough yeses that cannot quench my mind.” 

Amber skipped merrily to her room, scanning the outlines of the many doors. Semirammis, the Witch of Ethereal, Queen of the Witches of Light, stalked down the hallways of the gigantic alternate dimensional mansion. There was also another man, dressed in similar robes to Xidorn, though parallel as he was in a dark plum and pitch black designs. She flashed instantly behind her door, using her demonic hearing to figure their conversation.

“I still do not like how we are keeping the Antichrist alive.”  His frustration released the hostility in the atmosphere. His resentment towards the girl who invoked benevolence and friendship with the higher members of the Immortal Council aggravated him. In brutal veracity, Godfrey condemned her. His condemnation bargained his virtue, it highlighted his directed bitterness to the girl who gained his loves’ attention and his prominent peers in the council.

“I do not care. She is a caring girl. Godfrey if you just give that girl a chance, maybe you will see the reason why the majority vote won.” Semiramis resigned teleporting away from the acerbic scene. Amber would have too, if the pestering abided.

She unlocked the door, coming into contact with this Godfrey. He was tall. A giraffe in her point of view with a cocky, arrogant sin attached to his head. He was tall, lean, shaggy in a handsome way, she assumed. Hilariously he could grab the attention of a woman, yet the goddess that expired, was disgruntled with him.

“Hi” Godfrey and Amber opposite from each other, stood rooted awkwardly.  

“Antichrist.” Godfrey managed to confirm, haughtily, rudely even. His comeuppance was a grievance, an annoyance to many. No wonder Semiramis expired, there were too many negative traits genetically enhanced into this man. He was the epiphany of anti.

 

Godfrey was irritated, vexed, aggravated, all words associated to those magnified his features.  His contorted lines of being demeaned and degraded brought savagery into his mind. First he was punched into the gut of a Hell Demon and second the love his life Lysandra slept with a husband, he wanted to spit, slice and dismember. What else does he have to perch happily in his life as a high rank Immortal Council member, be listened to and have the woman who denied him? Godfrey hunched his shoulders, stomping away, glaring into the room of Amber Willows.

“I will see you in Hell. I swear on my blood and bones.”

 

3: Our Truth

Amber compiled her luggage into the carrier, brimmed with frilly, adorable clothes, toys, art books, utensils and beloved Mr. Bunz, her delightful pink button with one button eye and the other fitted with an eye patch. She pecked Mr. Bunz in the center of its’ plushy extended ears. Her charming tunes of campfire songs meddled into her head, anonymous as she barely remembered those memories. Those memories were puddles, mopped with a mop and bucket.

Pounding cement cracked her brain apart, cringing in agony as she clenched the roots of her hair. Dusty, severed memories reappeared, taking in a whole new light. There was a boy, a boy with side swept hair, cute dimples and obvious aquamarine eyes. Her parents, if they were her parents encased in the circulating fire, birthed with thick coarse logs with each other. Loving and affectionate smiles replenished by the flames of the fire.

Amber screeched as the vision configured into haunting images of her parents’ corpses, scorched, burnt beyond recognition. She shuddered onto the ground, hallucinations swirling into a concluding reflection of the boy, the boyish grin, her brother.

Lysandra heard the commotion, leaping on her feet from her master bedroom to assuage the commotion dwelling in Ambers’ disengaged form, functions, malfunctioning. She cooed the young woman, serenading Amber into her slim arms, the head located near her left breast. Serenity impacted the two women as Amber plummeted into a state of inner peace, inhaling and exhaling fiercely to puppeteer the feelings, lashing out, unbeknownst that her demonic visage infected every part of her skin. Tattoos widening, becoming a distinct mural, teeth enlarging into fangs, nails longer, converging into claws. All these symptoms were the sign of the Antichrist.

The constraint by Lysandra, clenched further, tightening to display Ambers’ madness can be guarded, imprisoned in a containment center within her mind. 

Amber steadied, tears gliding down her once powdered cheeks. She sobbed into the arms of Lysandra, cloaking the lanky arms around the parent. She feared, feared her madness, her insanity would scourge. Her demon, although a mere half breed, scoured on the beverage of madness, voraciously guzzling every sip of the potent liquor. 

“Everything will be alright.” Lysandra beamed, the smoothing voice, calming all corners of Ambers’ mind. As Amber scanned the collectiveness of Lysandra, her sheltered forehead was inclined to a tender kiss. This woman, like Riven manifested a great mirror to the mother in her visions. Amber in her scattered knew protecting Lysandra ripened into devotion.

Amber respired, the strawberry scent, emanating with the incense of lilacs and cherry blossoms. What a glorious aroma, settling the dimensions of her psych. “Can Gogo and Bame, really help me?” Her inquiry touching the ears of Lysandra, sharp with the brief collectiveness she operated to control. 

Lysandra established a fortifying smile, completed with radiance. “Yes I do. Both of them will teach you in control and inner peace.”  She informed, sturdily combing delicately on the mangled locks. For Lysandra, this froze her, shielding her into a block of ice, molding her into a statue, unable to repeat the next few words in her logical thought processes. She was timid to liberate Amber from her in a maternal fashion. 

Amber detached herself from the embrace, tints of insanity still disposed in her constructive view but also permeated with the familiarity in Lysandras’ hesitance. “I will come back, to you and to Riv-riv.” She giggled, standing as the other woman peered into her. Amber brushed Lysandra with her kiss, springing for her obese neon purple and ink luggage on the bed.

As the luggage handle was magnified, Amber stationed her hand onto Lysandra’s hand. She exchanged the gesture, guiding Amber to the portal, the portal to Hokkaido Japan. Her destination will be far from here, intimidating as she will miss Riven, Lysandra, Xidorn and Semiramis but for now, she needs this. This was her road, her road to recovery.

 

Amber commenced a goodbye, gathering farewells from her farewell party heading towards the portal to the mortal world with Goro and Tsubame. Tsubame Ogata, the wife of Goro Ogata clutched her hand in consolation, composing Ambers’ frazzled nerves to diminish. She sensed the Ogatas’ were trustworthy when it came to her benevolence, her charity.  The portal was never too fearsome in her later thoughts.

Riven and Lysandra bundled, intimately agitated though welcoming of Ambers’ resolution. Riven kissed Lysandras’ cheek, soothingly squeezing to certify their adoptive daughter will return, possibly healthier. Lysandra graciously smiled, snuggling into his arms, conceding to his affection. Deep down in their hearts, would anticipate for Ambers’ return. She was the light in their world, even though the girl believed she was the eclipse.  

“I have to go…will you be okay on your own?” Riven afraid, relief was undetermined until a later time, where minutes spared assisted the two of them. He had a lecture for the students in the Alma Mater, the institution for thriving Immortals. Leaving his wife in her loneliness, petrified him as the departure of Amber affected him too. At the moment, as two independent individuals, they needed to grant Amber doctrine in healing despite facing uncertainty. 

Lysandra palmed Rivens’ unshaven cheek, kissing him with a smile on her face.  She disrupted the session with the encouraging sentiments of “I might do some training and maybe meet mother for tea.” The scratching, feline hooks burying in, conviction derided for now. Only distractions, pitiful distractions could obstruct her starvation to bash into the portal and ensure Amber is alright.

Their embrace shortened, dividing into separate entities. Godfrey Cambrai lurked in the caverns of umbra, sneering with unsurprising wrath. He venomously remembered the Antichrist, penetrating her filthy words into his head and wedging a sharp stake to his voice. Even though he sought the vileness of the Antichrist, he was quite incapable of clean sweeping her into nothing. Lysandra adored her, cherished her beyond any sort of companionship. His love, loved a sin.

In his acid breath, venerated in the perfume of the corrupted, love fought valiantly, validating into succession. Good was tortured repeatedly in the heart and soul of Godfrey Cambrai, but his decision to love remained forever immortal.

 

The gardens were paradise, drawn in autumn colors engrossing gorgeously throughout the horizon. The leaves fluttered in the spring winds, serenading onto the grass and ground. Skies cleared from white debris, the alternate dimension sun in its full luster, luminescent.  Trees, unknown to mortals, intricate in roots, creation and description were cuddled together in bundles.

Lysandra wandered, inhaling the luxurious winds, the smell of rusty leaves, to the direction of sap gripped imagery to its’ greatest detail. She could feel the Earth beneath her feet, beneath her fingertips. It was a wondrous emotion, a feeling inseparable to any mortal but to a supernatural of her kind. Only a few Conjurer Gypsies had the relationship with the nature, itself. Elementals were given the power to manipulate and control elements of Earth, but Conjurers were given the gift to feel, to understand.

Her training would begin. She may be one of the most durable, strongest Conjurers next to her mother, sisters and fellow survivors of the Conjurer Genocide however the necessity to accomplish was a goal for her. She believed in development, sprouting into a being that can defend her family and her included.

She breathed once more, gulping massive quantities of the air around her. She motioned her hand in an intricate pattern, slicing with her fingertips, pulling the hand back, erecting the arm and then positioning toward the structure. Static sparks of light blue lightning impacting the tree align from her. As the branches, leaves and wood thieved with fiery passion by the lightning, gleams of gases and ashes glimmered in Lysandras’ sight. She displayed another hand motion, calming the flames into dissolution. 

“Training as usual, dear sister?” Kallista, her second eldest sister, defined with exotic, tropical charm and attractiveness pounced from the bushes. She inherited the obvious traits of a Conjurer of their village, dark chocolate skin and uniquely braided hair tied into a high ponytail. She also contrasted from Lysandra, as she was adorning a provocative dress, exposing sides of her breasts and toned long legs.

Lysandra exasperated from her sisters’ summarization with a mocking tone multiplied. Belittling was illusionary to both, as blood was thicker than water. Nevertheless quarrels still lay dormant, which stereotyped kinship in total. “You know me so well, Kallista.”

Kallista charmingly gave a dazzling grin, rapturous and mischievous to summarize her familiarity. Her sly, cunning manners resembled Godfrey, but she grasped onto the genetics of humanity. She was not a high Immortal member, merely middle immortal member, operating effectively if required. “We are sisters, raised from young to old. What do you expect?”

“Why are you here? Not to be rude.” Lysandra sought, investigating the scenery before them, precedent to peering from her shoulder with one eye. Curiosity inflamed, sizzling to the outer shell becoming a vapor.

Kallista gasped, counterfeiting an insulted presumption, dramatically fainting. “Such a rude little sister you are, so cruel.” She fakes sobbed, bringing forth a handkerchief, sewed in lace and designed skillfully. Eventually clearing the false tears, she clapped her hands together. “It is time for a sister meeting.” She winked, signature grin startling the younger one.

Lysandra muted for a slight period, attentive to her elder sisters’ incentive to cheer her up after the departure of Amber. “Very well, I have been having trouble forgetting the trouble this morning.” She relinquished, consolidating her sorrow into a form of happiness for the briefest of moments.

“Mother told me about the Antichrists’ leaving with Gogo and Tsubame.” Kallista mentioned, thoughtfully, contemplating the vibrant feelings radiating from her younger sister. The term “Antichrist” never deserved such affection. The title vanquished humanity, depleted compassion, erased everything that is made human. Yet she was amazed, her sister cherished this creature, a demon. Nature absolutely rejected.

Lysandra paced further ahead from Kallista, temper empty and a smile shone brightly. “By the way, her name is not “Antichrist”…its Amber.”

 

Thunderous clamors in the tsunami of students, engrossed in the variability of supernatural arts were rooted onto their seats.  Waves would breach unsettlingly within the stomach of the classroom, erupting into scorching lava.  Even with the tiniest earthquakes, permeating from inside and outside, practices ranging in several alchemic studies were being performed. 

Rumbling lectures emanated within the classroom walls, bouncing as Rivens’ voice berated into everlasting deliverance. Adoration struck in the right spots, electrifying the room with appreciation.  Often flustered, beat red from the cherishing propaganda from his students, handed Riven a pedestal in his vocal speed. With the whiteboard, his mark sketched the alchemical circles, detailing them into perfection, fine lines pacing into swirls and curves.

A sensitive subject brought up in his lecture, filling the imagination into a cup and dousing the entire liquid into the pits of one’s dreams. “The Signia, a legendary piece of equipment created by the eldest Dragonites known as Iroh, Xia and Jian formed the Trinity, the trinity of all alchemy.”

“Mr. Durandal, has anybody ever seen this Signia?” The recognizable pessimistic cynicism interrogated his listening spectrum. The very vocal cords, the swagger of an elite Immortal, freely swayed into the classroom, staking his claim. Godfrey Cambrai.

Riven coughed, the clenched fist preventing his particles from careening onto the whiteboard. Tense, was what he felt. A good friend at one point, a quality friend became his worst enemy. He formulated against the debate from this enemy. “If you ask the Dragonites, dear Mr. Cambrai maybe you will find out.”

Godfrey smirked, clicking his tongue playfully, taunting Riven. His vindictive, delineation sketched itself in demonstration, shivers from the students sprawled on their seats, anxiety in their eyes. He frowned at the few students who sat at the corners of the walkway, piercing his sharp eyes, suffocating each one of them with specified tyranny. “Mr. Durandal, Dragonites have not existed for a long duration. You can’t possibly think they are still alive?”

An unimaginable uncomfortable situation led by the two adversaries, developed disruptions in the fundamental education for the students. They were heavily enticed by the intensity of their professors, arguing over historical fidelity. Sure, teachers here defended their claims, not with swords or spears, more with words and logic. But it never meant physical or mythical counteracts were performed. They were.

Godfrey’s careful, feathery steps had an eerie merriment. His embodiment terrorizing to the point of asphyxiation was perceived as a rotting disturbance to the mind. “You think you are so smart for studying the whole Dragonite concept, don’t you? You have no proof, nothing to provide evidence of their existence. They are merely fairytales, generated by the immortals.” His performance, deserved applause considering the spiky, acid in his voice gave the edge to his negate.

Riven never took the brutal blows, taking, absorbing every detail of the exploit. His calmness, serenity even gave the room an angelic perspective. Riven, face to face with his old friend, his thousand year old enemy preserved a stony, brittle confrontation. He knew the pace of this contest, this immortalized rivalry. It concluded the same as it always does with silence. “Fairytales, mortals believe in those. Jack and Jill, unicorns, fairies, yet they exist here. You never know Mr. Cambrai, maybe Dragonites do exist. Maybe they don’t. It’s not up to you to make the final decision.”

The staring competition hibernated in the arena, two rambunctious, undeterred educators demanding superiority. They resembled tactical bombs, designating in poorly defensive bases. Students, too afraid, too cowardly visually examined their professors about to figuratively or literally shred each other apart. 

The entrance doors swung open, fresh winds blasting in. The smell of oxygen was glorious to the students, as misery was purchased from the tension. Sighs of relief and stretching limbs were gradual on each row. The newcomer was Xidorn Goldbard, in his typical, cliché golden brass garbs and elderly beard.

“Boys, there are students here.” Xidorn chuckled, consoling the situation by miming a hand movement, scolding them as if they were children. This gathered giggles and small laughter by the onlookers. He chortled with them, reaching to the stadium, waving to the students delightfully.  His kindness was well acclaimed, as students greeted him accordingly, elevating their exhilaration.

Riven apologized, blue eyes replenished with mercy and forgiveness from his mentor. “Apologies, Xidorn. We were…..discussing about the existence of Dragonites.” He paused in the middle, aware the discussion mirrored an argument.  Riven, truthfully had zero assurance in confirming his accusatory debate with his former best friend. There were times when he questioned how friendship could have been ever formed. Only the past could ever recover the broken shards of the past.

The bell rang, alerting students in their mad dash towards the exit, reprieving themselves from the animosity. The chortling of the high Immortal vibrated in the descending empty classroom while Godfrey was peeved from all the disruptions. Three men with connecting pasts have their stars aligned for more autocracies.

 

Time sprung quicker than the Immortal dimension, day and night were shortened, and weather and temperature were diverse. It was October 10^th, implied by the calendar. Two days passed since Ambers’ arrival in Hokkaido, the gratifying smell of mother earth was uniquely incomparable to those of the alternate dimension. The training centre, constructed entirely out of wood, replicating a dojo martial arts building, clutched onto the old ways.

Amber was meticulous at her training regime with both Goro and Tsubame, breaks minimal to the point where her demonic body did not spare any recess. She was hospitable with her new caretakers and teachers, insanity resurfaced every so often, but with her meditation, things went smoothly. Her peeled layers softened in which she can communicate with others in a conventional demeanor.

Directly, at the present time in the mortal world, meditation, finding inner peace permitted her to aspire in other aspects of her personality. Management of her rambunctious emotions was becoming easier, only madness was the infection.

Amber was levitating above a boulder that was her meditation rock, apparently. She found discomfort over the jagged and sharp uneven edges, learning to generate a new way of meditation even though it was highly fantasized. Tsubame had no quarrels over this technique and insisted she adapt to the surroundings around her with restraint.

“Amber-chan, I believe it is time for you to take a break.” Goro Ogata smiled, rather pleased with her advancement. She still had to go through her destiny and journey, irksome hardships and brutality beyond recognition. Despite what he knew, she was destined to be the Antichrist, but tiny moments, contained with love would give her the strength to surpass all evils. 

Amber opened her eyes, signaling to Goro. She proceeded to settle to the ground, her jump, her landing concise and perfect. Her demon, her training has guided her to this position of hierarchy. Mind over matter, thought over logic. Her mind was truly everywhere.

Goro began the conversion, as he always started, culturing her in average human speech. “How was your training with Tsubame?” Questioning her, would limit her agitation and fear over spikes of interrogation and it would also eliminate her deteriorating social skills.

Learning was still difficult for Amber, she would mess her adjectives to her pronouns without realization. Even though she was being educated, it did not signify progression. She would regress, progress, and then regress again.  “Fine, I saw a bird. It was so cute. I want to bleed it dry. Devour its ugliness.” She rambled, feminine giggles to deranged manic gained coverage.

Many of the students here were timid of her. Ambers’ solicitations of friends were short, barely visible. Her mind would break down piece by piece into multiple personalities. The lesser moments of insanity was staring at the moon, the sun, the stars, nature itself. Regardless, the Ogatas’ found love for the young girl, aiding her despite her native problems. 

A student, short, quite bashful and around the same age of Amber meekly sought her, anticipating for her arrival. His glasses, gained the perception of nerdy and his quite plump image was teased immensely to isolation.  His name was Yuujiro Miyamoto, the son of the Miyamoto Shrine Guardians in Japan. His parents Ginjiro and Masami sent Yuujiro to the Ogata Dojo for specialized training to become the next Master of the Shrine. “Amber, do you want to eat together? I mean if you want to. You don’t have to.” He bashfully irregular words scattered forward, flustered his mentor would see him stumble.

Amber squealed, racing off with Yuujiro in tow, abandoning the grinning Goro Ogata in the wake. She sang as both went to their favorite place to eat. As for Yuujiro, the redness colored on his face was all you need to know that his infatuation may be love.

 

Disinterest, sparse with the dried discontent of sewing gripped the impatient determination of Lysandra. She rested on a deluxe chair, cuddly and comfortable for this type of female degradation. In her eyes, training was the guardian of endurance and it was the capacity to function. Sewing was a hindrance on her part. Others find joy.  She figured out the term for sewing, it was dullness. Pitch grey in her dislikes. 

Since childhood this gave a barren wasteland feel. She never understood the traits in sewing as it proceeded to generically devote women to suffice for their own clothing. Lysandra memorized details of armor in the past, intoxicated with the various metals and dominancy it retained. She shook her head, returning to the interaction, her thinking entertaining her.

“You are distracted, Lysandra.” Ourania disciplined, her reverie mixed with parental maturity and uncertainty. Ever since Amber departed for the mortal world, for specified training, her daughters’ heart has been oppressed by distress.  It aggravated her elder daughters however she surmised, Lysandra has widened her maternal instincts since the arrival of the Antichrist. For herself, knowing was nice.

Lysandra interrupted her project, peering at the butterfly patterns, enriched with the darkness of black and purple. The flight of its wings soared to the arms, symbolizing freedom. Unusually this dress was the definition of perfection. She seldom perfected her sewing maintenance yet with the mindset scored on Amber, her imagination was broad. “It is nothing important mother, just pesky thoughts.”

“Thoughts are still thoughts. I know you miss her. However she chose this road. This road can cure her, in some ways. It is her destiny to find out if she can remove her link with Lucifer.” Ourania consoled, analytical, consistent clarification providing a remedy for a frenzied maternal soul.  Opposition was never a tactic used for Ourania, this method gained her the nobility of elder and grandmother to all.

“I know mother.” Lysandra forthrightly exchanged, stroking the cotton dress. Amusement filtering into her, as Ambers’ commotion over the dress energized her downed spirits. She rebounded back to work, singing lullabies she sang to Amber.

 

Hemera and Kallista were occupied with their own projects, snickering and chatting throughout the discussion contributed by their mother and fellow sister. Their disinterest was the fact they disowned the Antichrist. Even though their sister appreciated the filthy creature, they themselves wanted her dead. But no, mother is always right. 

Green with envy characterized Hemera altogether as Lysandra was the chosen favorite by Semiramis, by their mother and even Xidorn.  She flinched, focusing on the smile her mother presented to Lysandra. Her smiles were Christmas gifts to her children. She never gave them to Hemera, to Kallista, to Lysandra, yes. Not to her. Bitterness swirled with malevolence became malignant over the centuries.  To this day, poisonous darts were embellished so deeply, there was no way she could remove them herself.

“Hey you okay?” Kallista inquired, negligent of the evil deeds in the heart of her older sister and was amazingly pristine when it came to those factors.  Favoritism of the older sister was put in the dictionary under the name “Kallista”. Sure she cherished her younger sister, but the manacle with the eldest designated sympathy as she was often vulgarized by their mother.

Hemera discounted the reflection, visibly shaken by her vulgar behavior. “I’m fine.” She reciprocated, half-heartedly, deterred utterly.  There were times, she wished this jealousy would squander away into the trash, yet it became implanted into her sternum. She counseled a smile, retiring back to her unfinished work.

Kallista weary over the resentment embedded in the integrity of her elder sister and the devisable dissatisfaction between all of them. Her neutral position began to fade, as the venomous tyranny dwelling in Hemeras’ heart has transformed her into a Venus flytrap.  Her once pure petals became gnawing teeth, rampant and perhaps deadly.

Worry not, time will tell whether the rupture of familial bonds will be tested. Time will resonate if blood is thicker than water or the saying is just a saying.

 

Socially awkward, emotionally and mentally subdued, temperament was measly. Semiramis scorned those numbed emotions, cascading them into her coffin. Expression never correlated, even though fondness of particulars did not quarantine her absolutely. She was the ice queen, by others. Friendships circulated in small kin.

Her memories were vague over the thousands of years. Cruelty and slavery were her past. They chained her to the feet of the bed, while others proceeded to defile her. Amber was her equivalent in some ways as the girl experienced the same inaudible suffering, she endured.  Nevertheless madness was never an option, whipping the leech containing madness away from her.

She roamed her dynasty, her queens’ room, filing books and scrolls in alphabetical and numerical order. Her beloved collection gave her peace. Imprisonment in her mortal years, cultivated a yearning for knowledge, books mostly. Even in her immortal years, this spark of endearment rejuvenated her icy soul.

A knock on the wooden door, awoke her from her musing. No expectations required, the figure dowsed in darkness was her witch-sister, Shula Dalca. She scowled at the sight of the ragged Wither Witch before her, disgruntled by the straggly, wrinkled immortal woman shattering her peace. The tattered ebony robes had holes, ripped material scattering everywhere to the point they dragged onto her floor.

“I know something you don’t.” Shula Dalca menaced, a wrench in her crooked smile dispersed more ugliness.  A monster in the waking, rampaging in the light. This loathsome individual was bleach to a mortal and another extra dose of Philosopher stone to immortals.

Semiramis sniffed her curvy, slender figure withdrawing from a face to face confrontation with her enemy and fellow sister. She despised the euphoric delight gleam in the hag. Regardless of her appearance, she did not discriminate as the younger sister Christabel Roosa was plump and Amber was a figment of horror. For Amber, there was another side. As for Shula Dalca, any side was homicidal.

“I am not interested Shula. Whatever you have concocted, leave me out of it.”

Shula cackled, the shriek in her horse laughter was disturbing beyond comprehension. It shudder every immortal and mortal known to man. Her terrorism was displeasing. A virus to humanity, yet the Immortal Council has abided to keep her as a member.  Without her, they are incapable of summoning the goddess, World.  “Sister, it is not me this time around. It is somebody in the council. They are trying to rid Xidorn.”

Semiramis impassive reservation vanished, surging the once locked emotions. Xidorn was her friend, a friend close enough to protect from others in the council. “What do you mean?” She pierced, viciously glaring into the eyes of her opposite.

“My lovelies in the underworld have been chatting. There is somebody or somebodies in the Immortal Council informing of all our plans to Lucifer.” Shula informed her darting observation messy as the staunch locks dangled all around the moving head. A manic gaze, substituted with a harsh one. “I may not like you Semiramis, but Xidorn is an alright man. He does not hold prejudice.” This comment was formidable as Shula barely witnessed this category or form of sincerity.

There was tribulation for Semiramis since believing the truth out of Shula lead to catastrophe. Though, the impressions seem honest. Honesty was not a policy bred in Shula Dalca, nor became poignant. However in this case, there had to be an investigation without awareness of the members. “Very well, if you are lying to me Shula, punishment will be ensued.”

“Your spew of lying is so hostile, sister. I am not. My lovelies never lie.” Shula remarked, exasperated with her original archrival, her excruciating cough blew black saliva from her chapped lips. A berserk grin as the murkiness in the liquid repulsed Semiramis.

In disgust, the Ethereal Witch indicated the coaxing, conceding to the cooperation on both their parts. For now, they will keep this alliance a secret. Secrets are not meant to be told, not yet anyway. All they needed was another person to infiltrate and resume their plans. This person would be Lysandra Durandal.

 

Resigning to fate, destined with an aging Immortal and another defined as the former best friend or current enemy granted nothing for Riven. Instead of the common dread, there was the awkwardness. Awkwardness in verbal communication was never a bright insinuation. Two shades of grey and one, grey, though not so grey did not help the encouragement to speak.

The Immortal Library, the gigantic, extensive collection of books, scrolls and sciences was the goldmine of any immortal. Even witches, conjurers, prophets and non-alchemists journeyed here, to decipher their philosophies. There was a pamphlet of colors matching to the decorations around the Sanctum, both inside and outside, it grappled with autumn allure.  Instead of wooden benches and tables poised distinctive bean bags, sofas and loveseats. Even the carpet, in its luxurious condition seemed comfortable.

Xidorn blithely skipped to the rows of new books, unchecked and transverse, patting frantically on the top of the cover of one book. Accidentally this tipped the stacks into chaos as each book toppled onto the floor. He laughed, disoriented by the waterfall of cascading books. “You two are going to help me file these.”

“I’m leaving.” Godfrey sulkily disappeared to the entrance as Riven and Xidorn gawked at the tenacious man migrating. His lethargy messaged his dissatisfaction or pure intent to disregard them. This could be the result of his snobbish, stand offish behavior and the reason why he is disputed by many.

The remaining men, perched in the Immortal Library, began to tidy the disheveled arrangement. Hours forged, drooping eyes, yawns and sleepiness seeped in. There was no air conditioning so the carriage of books was exhausting. Xidorn slept on the couch, resting peacefully, snoring. Funnily, drool slipped from his lips to his chin.

Riven chuckled, finished himself from the labor. He brought a disparate of books, ranging from alchemy to historical myths. There was one about alchemy, intriguing his fascination. He smoothed the title, dust collected from the unknown years it was stored in solitude. It said, “The Signia”. His hypothesis of Dragonites forming the first circle was a driven subject for him.  He flipped the yellowing pages, sensing the flimsy paper, easily cleaved if not handled correctly.

A paragraph highlighted in his favor, in his hypothesis.

 

“The Signia, a legendary alchemical circle was created by the first Alchemists in the universe. There were many suggestions ranging from Nicolas Flamel in Europe to Mary the Jewess in Greco-Roman Egypt. Aside from the mortal beliefs, the First Immortals Uriel and Oriel were believed to be the founders of alchemy until Uriel, the eldest denied this confirmation.

As centuries boiled into whole millennia, Uriel revealed the generators of alchemy was not of a mortal or an immortal. Dragons began their journey in devout packs. They were called “Dragonites”. This pack made of the four legendary dragons Iroh, Xia, Ping and Jian, forming a circle in the Valley of Dragons…..”

 

The buckling of Rivens’ immaturity intensified, as a discovery from one book made many passages. His conjecture was mildly positive, mildly. He later crumbled because the Dragonites were referred to in a past tense. He burdened the question, of their survival, an implication farfetched. This account could have been a fantasy, mustered by authors who knew nothing.

Advancing further into the scriptures, diagrams and paragraphs, drew another side. It was another concealed, hidden passage to the legends.

 

“Another significant distinct pack called the Serpentines, familial serpent dragons, cousins to the Dragonites. They may have been the ones who produced the world to alchemy. In the Valley of Serpents, close to the Valley of Dragons holds a temple, gratifying the markings of alchemy. The problem is that only statues remain of the followers of the Serpentines, Shadi and Clotho remains.

Shadi and Clotho were twin serpent dragons, issued to have created time and space. Their mother, World created them to beacon the light of alchemy. Many say they are not directed to the Archaicist ideology, where World birthed them as they were created by Tarragon and a Basilisk.

Either way, the Dragonites and Serpentines were never proven to exist, though Uriel and Oriel abide to these rumors.”

 

Notes scribbling onto the leather bound notebook, replicating the written words before him. His pace, quickened, fastening the sloppy bullet points.  Rivens’ goal was to achieve information, not pointless paragraphs detailing alchemy. He is an Alchemy teacher in this alternate dimension. Go figure. His breathing momentum coincided with an Olympian runner.  Settling into reserve providing his book with necessary specifics, he was positive the creators of alchemy did exist. Now, not right now, he had to investigate on the brothers’ secrecy over the two species.  He hoped Uriel and Oriel could provide it. If not his direction would be lost.

 

On the left side of the Ogata Temple, the girls’ dormitory stood as the eventide designated slumber. Crickets were noticeable, but not especially visible to the hearing. Whistling winds blew against the wooden door, plastered with fine paper. Pink, cherry blossom futons were alienated into rows. Dissimilar to the western beds, these futons were on the floor like sleeping bags. Finding comfort in this bed was easily discovered.

The other side, the door was freely open, the background outside shone through. Tonight, a moon shone its light reaching to the feet of the beds near to the door. 

Outside long tendrils, chaotic, barely combed through hushed with the wind. Her pale, ghastly features obscured by the rampant hair. An eye admired the moon, madness struggling to reveal itself from it’s’ camouflage. Her hands under her chin, moved to shuffle the hair, with minor triumph. Covered in a sleeping dress, a loose robe scarcely camouflaged the sleepwear. She felt dirty.

Her four friends, Geneva Grey, Yuujiro Miyamoto, Baozhai Fung and Nikolaj Osana were slayers or hunters, oblivious to her sin. Her first meeting with them was gracious even considerate. However if they knew her, naturally confronted her. Hate would come first, more than friendship. She mourned the day when she leaves. The reason is because the truth was better than denial. Lying was a lost game.

“Girl, why are you awake?” Geneva queried, her authority and command overwhelming yet affectionate. Her tiresome legs, situating with her moon observing as well. Her seat was over at the other wooden pillar, stretching her legs and arms. Her sleepy disposition commanded bed. Shockingly Geneva remained, unbothered by Ambers’ decision not to initiate sleep.

Amber thought about her answer, indecisive about the topic. Her mystery will be a scavenger hunt alright. This response would lead to the revelations of her past, her present and her future. “If you knew me in clarity, would you still be friends with me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”Geneva suspiciously ogled, shrugging her broad shoulders.  Elevating burden bothered Geneva. It was clear since her keen perceptive eye was her talent. She could sense the burden within an individual, far more than any demon, immortal or mortal can.

“One day…one day you will distrust me. I just want you to know…I never meant to burden any of you.” Amber beamed with a genuine open heart. Her agitation cracked her mind in half, but warning her best friends of who she is was redeemable.  Her intentions are virtuous in her eyes. Negatively her sense of goodwill was imposed with her blood, her heritage. Discrimination, hate, prejudice would abide. She would be long gone from the place, maybe forgotten. Forgiveness was the key for her, if they could ever forgive her.

Geneva enlarged her eyes, overwrought with her friends’ eccentric anomaly and somewhat attracted to the ghostly smile. Many feared Amber for her phantom appearance. Her smile, a rare one, gave such forthright integrity. “Amber. Is everything okay?”  

It will never be, thought Amber. She may lose her friendships and the people she has grown fond of. Regardless, slayers and hunters never meshed with the demon society and their uprising was to terminate her kind. Losing everything shredded her soul, just like the days in the asylum or further back to the forgotten memories. “You will know soon. Not yet.” Amber gave a smile, the moon glimmering from her porcelain skin. She lifted herself off, removing her position from the pillar. “Goodnight.”

She is aware of being gazed at, catechized in wonder. Amber expected this and at least she could give a warning before abhorrence could unveil itself. Her sheets were dragged to cuddle her, the warmth inviting. It summoned such glowing desires. Her desires to be loved mandated for a short period. Love never existed for her. It lasted in short periods, leaving her alone and abused. At least she would have the memories.

“Night.”